"And all the ways

I've got to know

Your pretty face and Electric Soul"

~Lana Del Rey, Young and Beautiful

Part One: Dawn

Life used to be so simple before I met you.

I wasn't what you'd call a mysterious girl; I never wanted anything more than a life shared with the man of my dreams, a life of no complications and big questions; a life of love, but not the kind that makes your heart bulge underneath your ribcage in excruciating pain.

That is, until you happened.

The world is an ugly place, isn't it? You think you've got it all figured it out, and then all of a sudden you are stranded amidst the storm; a storm no one ever warns you of. Our own mortality, I reckon, is probably the best thing that ever happened to the lot of us, no matter how hard we try to postpone it; life is, essentially, an erotic transaction between longing and exasperation.

Of course, you will never have to be familiar with any of that. Decay. Change. Death. The inevitable end of everything you've ever grown fond of.

I don't have the slightest idea why this came to my mind now that time is running short. We function in mysterious ways, and I am just an old woman babbling incoherent things while crawling before God's doorstep. Almost surreal, isn't it? It looks as though it were yesterday, when I was an inane teen, and you were merely an aloof acquaintance. Deep down, my heart insists I am still the same underage girl, all insecurities and childish enthusiasm; frankly, I might even still be this way, no matter the decades speeding by. Maybe it's my body that has aged, changed beyond recognition, so much so that I am ashamed of even eyeing you directly. Bloody hell. I am so old, wrinkled and ugly, and yet as embarrassed as a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Funny, innit?

Tragic, but funny.

Obviously, you are astonishingly youthful and handsome. Almost painful to look at, just like you were approximately sixty years ago, back to a day when I was a silly kid that knew nothing of the world. Sixty years later, and I unerringly adore you, can you believe it? I am dying within a horrid, murky hospital room, medical substances pumping through me with every passing minute, and yet, the sole thought that can cross the mind is you. Your hair. Your unfathomable crimson eyes. Your beautiful everything.

Shadow the Hedgehog. I love you more than secular words could ever express.

It is hard to tell, at this point, whether I am managing to get this confession across or simply muttering nonsensical gibberish. Communication between us was severely hampered after the first stroke, and by the time the second came my mouth could barely connect to what transpired within my head. Old friends and curious neighbors that occasionally dropped by were usually mortified by this state of affairs-some even looked at me with a kind of slimy compassion that implied I am hereby an official vegetable. A certified plant. But I am only trapped within this incapacitated conglomerate of cells my spirit lives and thinks in. You were the only one to know this, even though many people believed that you don't have a soul of your own.

You doggedly insisted on reading me the news, and devoted entire hours to my non-responsive figure, constructing conversations out of thin air; you talked, and talked and talked, and I could only hope that my eyes betrayed the whole spectrum of thoughts and emotions that passed through me like shooting stars. I must have been successful, at least to an extent, because you always seemed to answer the exact questions I could no longer pronounce in a verbal manner.

And you absolutely and unabashedly hated all those slimy visitors with their ludicrous, vomit-inducing sympathy.

Anyway. This monologue, this dying testimony- it almost certainly plays exclusively within my expiring brain. But this is all that can be done, and with a tad bit of luck you might feel some of it. The significant bits.

Bits of happiness, and bits of shared life.

I thank you for them.

Electric Soul

A story by A.M. Palmer

"That's indecent."

It was. Terribly so; I was fourteen, curled in a ball outside someone else's apartment, crying relentlessly and earning weird looks from passersby. It wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't have been the last, hadn't it been for you incidentally being nearby. Head buried between my knees in rage and burning shame, I hadn't even sensed you approaching. We had never officially interacted during the two years we'd known one another, apart from a couple of times I had had to talk you into something important. You'd never addressed me directly before, so your first spoken words to me were technically those: That's indecent.

Distinctly remember untangling clenched limbs, raising a flushed face, gracing you with the most impossibly bratty glare there could ever be. "Says the guy who thought it'd be cool to blow the world to bits, because some nutcases killed a girl."

I regretted the line as soon as it escaped my lips, and immediately felt stupid. As if propelled by a hidden mechanism, you shifted your weight slightly forward and started lowering yourself at a steady yet dramatically slow pace. When our eyes were finally on the same level my heart sank under the net weight of that scarlet, wooden gaze.

"Says the guy", you emphasized every syllable spoken, "Who tries to save your sorry asses even though he believes most of you ants aren't really worth saving."

In an extreme showcase of teenage temperament, I used the last argument that still seemed available, and stuck out my tongue.

"That's indecent, too", you seemed moderately amused by the conversation's direction so far, even though to this day it remains a mystery what made you start it in the first place. The ever so subtle smirk on those lips rendered your face absolutely slappable, if eerily captivating. "Say, has it ever crossed your mind how ungrateful of you it is to try to force him into feeling something he cannot?"

"This is none of your business."

"Of course it is not. You can make a fool of yourself until Hell freezes over, for all I care. But you are being unfair to the Faker, even through I regrettably admit it's been entertaining."

I pretended not to be paying vivid attention, however that was the exact opposite of true. The initial pang of shame subsided and gave its place to a new, overmastering kind of utter embarrassment never experienced before. It was almost funny, in retrospect, how those few pieces of advice triggered basic mental connections I'd never managed to make on my own. Ungrateful. Unfair. This was not what I had intended to be- not that I really had a clue with regards to what I had intended to be.

Wiped my nose on the back of my sleeve like a spoilt child, then jeered as nonchalantly as possible.

"Oh, you think you are so wise and serious and above everybody else! Tell me, Shadow the Edgy-Hedgy; does it ever get chilly on your high horse?"

You seemed overtly baffled for a fraction of a second before, for the first time ever, I saw you laugh. It was unexpected and intriguing, like some kind of rare physical phenomenon, but oddly comforting nonetheless.

"You know, if you were as brutally natural around him as I just witnessed, he could at least find you remotely funny."

"..."

"And now excuse me, I am on a mission."

"I don't give a rat's ass." trying to sound badass, I bitterly realized I only gave the impression of a clinical retard. You left without another word, sped by, and drifted out of sight.

Amy Rose, the immature weakling, Amy the annoying brat. She stayed on those dirt-ridden stairs for hours on end, shrouded in thoughts. When she reached what she believed were the right conclusions, she took a deep breath, nodded to the Universe and to no one in particular at the same time, and collapsed in the most thorough, ruthless, unappealing, loud, honest tears of her entire life.

Hardly a week passed before I started begging Rouge –your comrade and one of the surreally few people who ever took me seriously- for a clue with regards to your whereabouts. She was hesitant at first, but through conversation I managed to leech just enough information to conclude you passed a great deal of your free time alone at the tiny harbor. And that's precisely where I found you, bathed in the unforgiving morning sunlight, immersed in what looked like deep rumination. You didn't notice me right away, absorbed as you were by the shimmering sea and peaceful frothing sound of the waves. If there is a picture of you I would want to keep with me deep into a possible afterlife, this is the one: Your lean figure, painted in the colors of dawn, otherworldly and darkly fascinating, as you listened to the world breathe.

"I want you to train me", I said. Can't say exactly what I was bargaining for, if anything. Your ears twitched almost imperceptibly, but apart from that, you remained as unmoving as a mountain.

"Of course I won't. You are too squishy."

I felt the heat build up in my cheeks, blood pumping haywire in my temples. Fists clenched. I hated it that you pretended to be unbreakable and perfect, hated you for rubbing my faults in my face. I had, after all, somehow inhibited your descent into madness a couple of years prior.

"Listen. You were right. I've been an idiot. There is a lot more to do than spend my days trying to force someone to like me."

"Humph."

"The problem is."-I took a deep breath in order to avoid stammering, and wiped a pair of sweaty palms against the front of my dress-"The problem is that, for years, chasing is all I've ever known. Which means I can't...-"

I kept staring at my shoes, shifting from foot to foot in an awkward dance. Everything was crumbling in the haze of total panic, and it felt almost unnerving to hear myself speak up.

"...I can't do anything else. And I'd really like to be strong, and useful. There, I said it."

The silence thickened so much that my rebellious heartbeat was almost audible. It took you minutes to form a reply, and those moments translated into eons in my young head.

"I don't have any spare time to waste on your girly shenanigans, and besides, not everyone has the luxury of a mentor. Life won't ask for your permission before it starts throwing shit at you."

You had your back turned on me the entire time, so there was no facial expression to decipher, no reaction to assess. Shoulders slouched, morale broken, I swallowed my indignation and walked away that day, only to come back the next, and the next, and the one after it. Days, weeks passed, and after nearly a month of being a constant nuisance, I managed to get what I wanted, on the condition that I train on my own whenever you had to be away on duty.

...So it began. You were initially reluctant, restrained, but this was new to us both and the effort required in order to make it work on either end was soon proved to be engaging. We trained early in the morning and after dusk, on the Green Hill, at the Mystic Ruins, in alleys and deserted parts of the town. You were almost always silent apart from the advice you periodically provided, yet extremely patient and discreet. The rest of the day could be fun or plain awful, interesting or boring, but none of that would matter by training time because everything melted into the cathartic pain of physical exhaustion. Deep down, I sensed –and hoped- that our shared agenda felt redeeming to you as well, if not always, then at least sporadically.

Thanks to your guidance, I saw myself change in ways unimagined; I learned how to let go, how to get over what I felt, how to fall and get up again. How to persist. I caught myself waiting impatiently for our sessions, chewing on my nails in heated anticipation, sometimes even overdoing working out due to sheer enthusiasm.

Our friends did not take it lightly, as expected, partly because they didn't entirely trust your intentions. Sonic, in particular, thought that I was just seeking ways to attract "attention". I didn't blame him, of course, because he always meant well and that was probably his way of manifesting that, deep down, he cared. Through endless talk, and with some help from Rouge, I managed to convince them that they had misunderstood us both; we were fixing one another.

Nearly a year passed that way. The first time I ever managed to pin you to the ground, you were so ecstatic that you insisted we go out and celebrate. The proposal was so out of character that it had me beaming like a buffoon for an entire afternoon, heart ablaze with pride and excitement. Not only had I become an accomplished fighter, I also possessed concrete proof that you were legitimately, frankly interested in my progress- so much so, that you had for once decided to do away with your recluse etiquette and celebrate. With me.

That very same night I tasted alcohol for the first time ever. I looked older than my age back then, the dress I wore was deceptively ladylike, and anyway, you didn't seem to mind at all because you hardly ever drank yourself. We meekly sat next to one another and, even when out of things to say, we just relaxed and comfortably shared the silence. The bar was writhing with people, submerged in the vivid susurration of active conversations and music, but it all swirled in an incoherent mass within my head. City lights and busy nightlife; I was growing up beside you.

At some point, I shyly confessed that I found it strange of you to seem so delighted and carefree. Your eyes delved into mine, you smiled the most disarming smile I had ever seen, and replied that it was because you considered me to be one of the very few decent accomplishments of your entire life.

The declaration had me staring nervously at the liquid contents of my glass. "But you have saved so many lives."

We were so close that I could hear the fluctuations of your breath before you spoke. You said, "I am not as heroic as you might think."

A nudge to the rib, a small giggle to break the ice. "Sure thing, Shadow the Edgy Hedgy."

It was a ridiculously happy moment.

The years sped by, as they casually do; happy moment after happy moment, memory after memory. Bit by bit, we didn't just heal one another- we were transformed into completely new versions of our former selves. By the time I was eighteen, we had established a weekly ritual of training, going places, meeting friends, or merely being silly together. And, thanks to our common efforts, I was finally a valuable part of most team expeditions, were it searching for emeralds, guiding populace to safety, or even thwarting organized attacks. Never got kidnapped again; while Sonic had been incessantly trying to save me from all kinds of trouble, you took it a step further and saved me from myself.

"He is almost unrecognizable when he is with you", Rouge had once remarked, while we were out shopping. It was on a warm summer's day, and I immediately felt grateful for the high temperature that had already given a reddish hue to my cheeks; that way nobody would be able to notice the blush on them. Naturally, she meant it as a compliment to our friendship, but I had been falling for you in silence for months, and phrases like that made my guts churn.

Falling for you. It wasn't supposed to happen, and, in all honesty, I cannot pinpoint when, and how it began. It was like being aboard a plane and hitting an air gap; sudden, unnerving, shockingly invigorating. Some mysterious chemical balance in my mind collapsed, changed, and one day, while we were practicing hand-to-hand combat, it vaguely occurred to me that your eyes had a sort of staggering gravitational pull, and that the smell of your breath was the most erotic thing in the world. I started losing round after round because, instead of focusing on my reflexes, I kept admiring the movements of your muscles. Rather than paying attention to your reprimands following my constant mental absence, I'd get high on the timbre of your vocal rasp.

On my birthday, the whole gang had organized a surprise party, during which Sonic, against all previous indications, walked up to the bar and asked me for a quick dance. Believing my feelings to be irrational and unrequited, since you were my mentor and good friend, I convinced myself it was vital to build a life of my own, and politely accepted. This, unsurprisingly, caused uproar among the others, and while on the stage, I caught glimpses of you, separated from the pack, arms crossed almost defensively, looking glaringly uneasy. A wild predicament spread its tentacles under my skin, so once the song was over, I trudged like a robot on wobbly legs towards you. I felt, rather than heard myself ask you to accompany me, since the drum solo my heart performed muffled all other sources of sound. Instead of an answer, you gave me your hand.

The bar was spinning. I stumbled on each and every one of the steps while climbing up the dance floor, but the most embarrassing highlight of the show came when the music was swapped to a slow tempo and your right palm reached for my exposed back with no further explanation. My mind in overdrive, senses skyrocketed, eyes constantly blinking so as to clear the double vision. Thoughts in turmoil, limbs itchy in uncontrollable desire. Hyperventilation.

That same night I touched myself thinking of you.

"Are you completely out of your goddamn mind?"

Two hours on the surgical table, some stitches here and there, plus a visually unpleasant scar that would never completely fade away. The doctors had insisted I be left at peace for at least a couple of hours after coming around. However, as soon as my condition was deemed stable, you had violently shoved your way past nurses and paramedics, stridden across the corridor -in a havoc of screams and fleeing visitors- with the force of a war vehicle, and barged into my room. Furious.

I unsuccessfully attempted to prop myself up and fell back on the rigid pillow. Barely wired to the world of the conscious, dazed by tons of painkillers, the last thing I needed was a heated interrogation as to why I had acted this way and not the other. To make matters worse, I was irrevocably appalled by the very idea of a needle stuck in my arm and all those bloodied bandages, and if any of those silly phobias were revealed before you I'd kill myself.

"Hey, of course I'm feeling better, thanks for asking!"

The sarcasm probably hit the right buttons because, a couple of seconds later you seemed less tense, sighed profoundly, and sat on the only available chair, next to where my bed was. Wrinkles of worry on your forehead run so deep they looked carved. A pinch of remorse started gnawing on my chest, but I instantly realized I would rather put myself between you and a million more bullets than have to see you get hurt.

Your face contorted into a mask of rage. "You think what you did was gutsy? You do realize you could get killed?"

"You do realize I did it for you?" –it was grossly unfair. I had just reacted on impulse, done the same exact thing I knew you would have done in a heartbeat had it been me the one in peril. When a troop of armed androids is threatening your city, the first thing you consider is the safety of your family. "You had your friggin' back turned on that darned cannon, you could-"

"It could have been laser. Or chaos energy. I've seen the remains of GUN agents hit by cannons like those, whenever there are any, that is", you exhaled, buried your head within your hands. "Stupid girl."

Broken and forlorn, the physical pain was nothing compared to the amount of hurt. Feelings restrained for who knows how long, unwelcome yet irrepressible tears. Being called stupid after nearly sacrificing my life for you was the single cruelest slap to the face I'd ever received. Stupid for having me cut open and sewed again. Stupid for concealing my infatuation despite it growing stronger by the day.

Stupid for loving you.

I let myself go and manifested my weakness before you. And cried.

"Well, I am sorry you mean the fucking world to me!"

Silence, awkward and electrified. During five years of friendship, neither of us had made such an emotional confession. Sentimentalism was unlike your style, whereas I had been busy trying to appear fierce and independent. But there we were now, me having exposed the contents of my heart like cards on a table, and you, fidgeting nervously back and forth, staring at me with genuine sorrow. In a moment of cosmic madness, you extended your arm and cupped my face, forcing our eyes to cross paths, making me die a hundred times.

"I've lost someone I loved before. I won't take it if it happens anew."

"Let go of me." –why was it that the oxygen was suddenly so scarce? Opened my throat, sucked gushes of air in, forced them out. I was asphyxiating.

"Amy-"

"I am not a second Maria. I am my own person. Let me clarify this."

"I didn't mean"-

"Please go."

I stubbornly fixed my gaze on the wall until the door closed with a small, apologetic thump. The conversation played in my head in fast forward, then something resonated, and petrified, defeated, flabbergasted, I began screaming your name until diphthongs merged together to a single, wordless howl; they had to rush in and sedate me.

I've lost someone I've loved before.

You had just admitted that you loved me –no matter the type of love- and I had shunned you, pushed you away like the immature clown I was.

My bandages started bleeding.

"I believe he deserves to know"

Chili dogs and sympathy. By springtime I was training to be a paramedic, and during break I'd occasionally meet with Sonic at the local diner. Our friendly outings usually consisted of me droning on about how horrendous anatomy was and him nodding stoically, but right now the discussion was veering in peculiar directions.

"Who deserves to know what?"

He laughed so hard he virtually choked on a large bite. "I am sorry Ames, but you haven't been so obvious since you chased me in pursuit of marriage. Of course I am talking about Shadow."

Knees turned to jelly, all blood drained from my face. Had it been so blatant, then? My lunch was suddenly unpalatable, stomach forming knots. People apparently understood me better than I could understand myself.

"He treats me like a younger sister. I'd make a fool of myself and spoil everything."

My friend gestured in agreement. "He still deserves to know."

Ten thirty.

You were worryingly late. We had arranged dinner for two at my place after you were done with one of those ultra-secret missions of yours. Everything had been prepared to the finest detail a few hours in advance and I, toying with Sonic's suggestions within my mind, had worn a blue dress that showed cleavage. But the sun had long set, and there had been no warning, no phone call, not a sign of you. My nerves were as tense as guitar strings; I'd storm off to one end of the kitchen, then turn on my heel and walk back, again and again, oscillating like a stalled carousel.

Then the bell rang. I unlocked, and was instantly consternated. Your face was a hot mess; glistening, crimson, approximately two inches long, an asymmetrical cut adorned your right eyebrow. You had already opened your mouth, planning -it seemed- to apologize for the delay, but I briskly yanked you by the sleeve, made you sit on the couch, and ran to the bathroom in search of medical supplies.

"You need disinfectant. And stitches."

Opening and slamming drawers, boxes all over the place. Your voice reached my ears from the living room like the echo from the far end of a tunnel.

"I am an agent, you know. I can do this on my own."

"This is what I am studying for. I will do it faster than you can."

But naturally that was wishful thinking; as soon as I positioned myself right in front of you and began working, it dawned on me that I'd never touched your face before. My palms were sweating at an improbable rate, hands trembling. We sat so quietly that the clock ticking seconds away brought me to the verge of breakdown. Your respiration periodically shifted from chaotical to borderline normal, and since I was, essentially, leaning over you, I could feel every slight breath tingle my collarbone; sending firm shivers down my spine.

In the dim light of the expiring electric lamp hovering above, you looked mesmerizingly flawless; alive, vibrant, painfully real. Lines and shapes painted in the colors of night, unwitting movements of muscles protruding under layers of clothing- they intoxicated me. Whenever my fingertips brushed against skin, desire burned through with the impact of a taser. Senses wore one another's clothes, so much so it was impossible to tell hearing from vision apart; I barely had an idea what I was doing anymore.

The stitches were done, so I promptly reached for a small piece of cotton and began wiping some traces of blood off your temple. There were drops of sweat on it, and to my growing horror, I realized we had been slipping closer to one another, and exhaled heavily. Then everything became hazy like a dream sequence; I knew it was time to stop, mortified by the mere prospect of betraying my secret and ruining our friendship, but raw instinct was pushing me forward with the force of a thousand magnets. The torture climaxed when you mechanically raised your head and we finally locked eyes.

Gravity and lightheadedness, lightheadedness and gravity; I had to finish this or else I'd need to offer explanations. Still immersed in that relentless face off, I attempted to proceed and remove the stains, but upon contact all defense systems broke, and you inanely moaned my name.

My heart stopped, my body was so paralyzed I automatically dropped everything. Gazes still betrothed, you swiftly grabbed my left wrist that had frozen in mid-air and invitingly dragged it close to you. My fist opened of its own accord, and in the brink of unconsciousness, I caressed your face. The inebriating smell of your breath, your lips that had drifted slightly apart –it was all unbearably much to take; encasing your face with both hands I opened my mouth and inhaled just a little bit of you.

We devoured one another in an awkward, hungry kiss. Taste and sound. Temptation. Pleasure. My palms explored your neck, your chest, your waist; your fingers dag deep into my hair and slid downwards, almost leaving scorch marks. I bit your lip so hard that you squeezed me tight against you, gasped for air, and kissed me again. A violent cosmic collision took place in the overwhelming silence, and sexual overdrive was soon translated to physical pain.

Inexperienced, uncertain, in the backyard of my mind I kept wondering whether everything was done properly. What I had yearned for but deemed impossible was happening- you wanted me the same way I wanted you. But I dreaded letting you down. Dreaded doing something inappropriate and making you stop.

Your index trailed along the neckline of my dress. I was seconds away from begging you to take the thing off me when you pulled away.

"I can't do this. Sorry."

Tangled body parts –yours and mine- broke free again. I combed my messy hair with convulsing fingers, pretended to be ludicrously interested in the embroidery of a pillow, and then rid myself of an imaginary dust particle. When I attempted to steal a glimpse, your eyes radiated heartbreak. You spoke with a voice that was bitterly sober, if a little coarse; explained that you were unfixable, that guns weren't supposed to fall for girls. That if you stayed, you'd eventually paint my innocence in the colors of your past.

Every last fragment of my dignity evaporated. I threw my pride in the trash can and confessed that I loved you in a non-sisterly way, that I'd never had a boyfriend because all other men had the major flaw of not being you. That the past stays in the past and that's how things should be.

But no. You had done horrible things to fellow beings, you argued as we trudged our way to the front door. One day I'd find out. One day I'd hate you.

I wordlessly nodded, yes. I already did.

Eleven o'clock and you were gone. Returning to the living room I glared at the impeccably decorated dinner table, and boldly walked past it, deciding to leave it there until it disintegrated. Straight into the bathroom, hurriedly got undressed, entered the shower and doused myself in cold water. Without giving it much thought, and with the trickling water filling the ears with a solemn buzz, I spread my legs and slowly slid a wet finger in between them.

Curse you.

Crying days, ice cream and wine. Soap operas as lobotomy, calories for fuel.

Ugly, undesirable, brainless me, Amy the disposable sidekick, Amy the hysterical fan girl. Covered every mirror in the apartment, only because my reflection seemed so repugnant. In the privacy of my own imagination, I murdered and disfigured you in abominable ways, brutally cut into everything rendered out of reach.

Unwashed dishes formed seesawing towers in the sink, assignments for various classes remained untouched in drawers and under piles of homemade garbage. Moving about aimlessly like a zombie, I started talking to myself so as to maintain any level of sanity and failed fashionably. The phone would ring every now and then, someone would be worried, itching to verify I was still breathing, but nobody had seen or heard of you so I despised them all. And hung up.

Drinking in order to desensitize myself, embrace the numbness, consciousness came and went at irregular times. Oblivion was my best friend, sobriety the enemy. Whenever the fog dissipated a little, memories of you would tear me apart; you the would-be lover, the mentor, the best friend, the brother, the ally, the man. Hours alternated between spilling my guts over the toilet and burning photographs. Lying in bed I'd fondle my breasts and fantasize about you doing it to me, then stop and revel in self-pity; dependent, pathetic idiot.

People paraded before the front door –Vanilla, Cream, Sonic and Tails to name few- but they'd have to rip it off the hinges in order to infiltrate. I would either whisper something reassuring and ignore the reply or scream my lungs dead until they vanished. This dragged on for a few weeks; then Rouge dropped by, and instead of preaching me, she just slipped a scrap of paper across the threshold, and walked away. The message inside was laconical as much as it was unsettling.

He has disappeared for weeks. You should listen to your goddamn voicemail more often.

The truth stroke like a sack full of pebbles; with the spontaneity of ink dispersing in a glass of water, thoughts formed themselves. Looking past the haze of my self-absorbed delirium, I eventually understood. Your mistakes; my mistakes- weren't we inherently flawed, supposed to make part of one another's healing process?

I am a gun. Guns aren't supposed to fall for girls. I'll paint your innocence in the colors of my past. I've lost someone I loved before- I won't take it if it happens anew.

You were trying to protect me.

I had suspected you would be hiding in one of our training spots, and was proved correct. After a whole afternoon of erroneous guesses, I found you in a rather secluded part of the Mystic Ruins, invisible to the unknowing visitor thanks to a thick array of trees. The very sight of you instigated physical suffering; sometimes, love seemed to be working against evolution, rather than for it.

A collaboration of sunset and mist gave the impression of a halo around you, shadow cast oblong on the damp grass. Even from a certain distance, your body language spoke volumes, and in spite of standing straight, the man in front of me looked shattered. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, I approached you, one step at a time; kept repeating to myself the same mantra, over and over, hoping against hope that I'd be brave enough for the sake of us both.

It was obvious by then that you had heard the footsteps, and -given the time and place- understood who it was. You slowly turned around, eyes as runny as the humidity on a leaf, and gave me a look so scared it made you appear inches shorter. Your speaking voice had transformed into that of an insecure child.

"I am a coward."

Abused movie clichés- butterflies in my stomach. Closer and closer I got, alert and tense like an animal being preyed upon. I stopped right in front of you, and with a hundred thousand feelings piercing through my silly little heart, I balanced on the tips of my shoes and kissed you.

"That's indecent", I said, and we fell in each other's embrace, shaking in uncontrollable laughter. Happiness inflated in me. We melted inside one another, delighted, relieved, almost ready to burst.

When night fell, you took me back home and we made love for the very first time. It was brief, because we were both overdosing on an explosive mix of panic and lust, but gentle, and beautiful beyond words. Naked, doused in sweat, we snuggled close and listened to one another's heartbeat.

Holding my face as if it were a precious trophy, you promised never to leave me again.

You kept the promise.

Author's note: I had planned "Double Vision" to be my swansong for this fandom, but I kept receiving encouragement by many to "write more of this stuff" (sic) in reference to some of my more "serious" works, like Nocebo and The Wave Gazer. This popped into my mind. Sorry for the OOCness but it plays more as an original in my head.